Authors: Erica Spindler
“You tell me. You’re the expert.”
Dr. Jasper didn’t reply, but Mira hadn’t expected her to. The comment had been bullshit, and they both knew it. She sighed. “I woke up and it was like … he was there. Or had been there, standing beside the bed, gazing down at me. It was so real.” She looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap, then back up at the therapist. “I thought, for a moment, that maybe everything else had been a dream.”
“Go on.”
“And it all came crashing back,” she said simply.
“The day you lost him?”
“Yes. And everything since.”
“Then what?”
“I ran for cover.”
“Shelter from the storm.”
The storm of her emotions. The truth.
“Why now, Dr. Jasper? After all these months?”
“The sixth anniversary is just around the corner. We tend to mark traumatic events, even if only subconsciously.”
Six years since Katrina had blown her life to bits.
“It makes sense, it’s just…”
“Just what?”
She met the doctor’s eyes. “That it feels like a lie. And I don’t want to lie to myself anymore.”
When Dr. Jasper didn’t respond, Mira’s cheeks grew hot. “It doesn’t do any damn good, does it? It changes nothing and I’m so sick and tired of—”
Unmoved, the therapist asked, “So sick and tired of what?”
“Everything. This.” She jumped to her feet. “Of missing Jeff. Of reliving every freaking moment of that day. I want my life back.” She met the therapist’s eyes defiantly. “It’s mine, dammit! And I want it back!”
“So take it back. Only you can.”
“Right. And how do you propose I do that? Jeff’s gone. I can never get him or what we had back.”
“No, you can’t.” She paused. “But you can make a new life for yourself.”
“Haven’t I?” she asked bitterly. “Isn’t this it?”
“Living in the past and blunting the pain of the present isn’t a new life.” Dr. Jasper leaned forward slightly. “Let me ask you something. How difficult was the last year for you?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Staying clean. Until Monday night, how difficult has it been? On a scale of one being a piece of cake and ten being hell on earth?”
“Not a piece of cake, but…”
But not that difficult.
“A four. Some days even a three.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Mira frowned, not comprehending.
Dr. Jasper went on. “I know from our sessions that in the past twelve months, you’ve experienced some version of that night many times.”
“True.”
“What was different?”
The Magdalene window
. It popped into her head so quickly, it took her by surprise. Mira frowned. “Why would my work on the Magdalene restoration make any difference in my ability to stay clean?”
“Substituting one addiction for another isn’t unheard of. In fact, studies indicate it’s common.”
She shook her head. “The window’s been a cause, not my crutch.”
Dr. Jasper laced her fingers in her lap. “It’s consumed you for these past months. You’ve given the project everything, your talent and every spare minute, you’ve begged for donations, and in your quest, even alienated people close to you. Do you deny any of those things?”
“No.”
“They’re all classic signs of addiction.”
“You’re saying that for the last year, the Magdalene window has been my drug of choice?”
“It’s possible. Maybe your relapse was precipitated by the fact the window is complete. Soon to be installed. Essentially, about to be taken away from you.”
And what does she do? Run for her original drug of choice.
“Great,” Mira snapped. “I finally get back to the point where I’m loving my work and feeling connected again, and
you
tell me it’s some sort of unhealthy obsession?”
“I didn’t tell you that’s what it was. I offered it as a possibility.” She cocked her head. “And I didn’t use the term
obsession.
That was your choice.”
Mira scowled at her. “I hate when you do that. Turn my words around on me.”
“You’re supposed to.” Dr. Jasper’s lips lifted in a small smile. “If it’s not at least a little uncomfortable, I’m not doing my job effectively.” She glanced at her watch. “With that, our time’s up.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday, August 12
10:00
A.M.
Mira pulled into the gravel lot behind her studio and parked her Ford Focus. Her session with Dr. Jasper had left her on edge and vacillating between being disheartened and pissed off. Not with the therapist. Or even herself.
At the situation. At the fact she’d been able to turn something as healing as her art into a way to stay numb.
She climbed out of the car, slamming the door. A moment later, she rounded the front of the building. A converted chapel, located just off River Road, a few miles from the Uptown bend in the Mississippi River, the ninety-year-old building fit her needs perfectly. Constructed entirely of cypress boards, it consisted of three rooms, one of which was large enough to serve as her workshop, and lots of windows to provide natural light. Most important, it sat on natural high ground that hadn’t flooded during the storm.
She let herself in. The smell of acetone and mud hit her first. Next, she became aware of the light, the way it spilled through the artworks, creating patches of color on the floors and walls. Through the day, as the sun moved, the colors and patterns would shift, creating a kind of life-sized kaleidoscope.
In the months immediately after Jeff’s death, she’d worked only because the destruction had been so great. She hadn’t felt the pull of the glass, had been unable to see its beauty. The feeling of purpose and completion her art usually provided had been replaced by something cold and mechanical.
It had been an awful, barren place to live, though she preferred it to the chemically induced euphoria she had turned to.
Mira crossed through what had originally been the church narthex but was now a storefront, and into the small kitchen. Using her single-serve Keurig pot and a pod of her favorite blend, she fixed herself a cup of coffee then headed with it to her workshop.
Pocket doors separated the work from the retail areas. She slid them open and stepped into the room, then closed the doors. Organized chaos reigned. Six large tables, some supporting restorations in progress, others cluttered with buckets of tools, stacks of journals, catalogs and the occasional abandoned water bottle, formed two rows. Every inch of wall space was covered with a seeming mishmash of sketches, posters, photos, ads and articles, much of it covered in a layer of studio grit.
That such a precise art form could be created in such a disorderly environment still astounded her.
Sipping her coffee, Mira made her way past the racks of colored glass, the bins of lead, zinc and copper came, heading for the rear of the studio—and the heart of the Magdalene window, the large center panel depicting a grieving Magdalene at the foot of the cross.
The other four panels were wrapped and racked, ready to be transported to their new home. Mira had been unable to let this one go.
Another indication that Dr. Jasper had been right.
Mira stopped in front of it now. Done in the Bavarian style of painting on glass, the artist had achieved an amazing amount of detail. Mira had tried her hand at the process, a complex layering of enamel paint and kiln firings, and found it exacting to the point of maddening. Calling her finished product sophomoric in comparison to this would be giving herself way more credit than she deserved.
This artisan had managed to portray Mary Magdalene’s deep pain at the loss of her beloved. Mira understood the saint’s pain; she had connected with it immediately.
She, too, had lost the love of her life.
“Good morning, Maggie,” she said softly, perching on the edge of a table, gazing at the saint’s anguished expression. “You’re going to be disappointed with me. I fell off the wagon.”
Mira paused, as if waiting for a response, then continued. “Dr. Jasper thinks it’s because we’re about to say goodbye. I hate thinking she’s right, but I do.”
Mira heard someone arriving. Deni, she thought, glancing at her watch. She had hoped for a few more minutes alone, but she wasn’t surprised by her ever-prepared assistant’s early arrival.
Mira turned her thoughts back to Dr. Jasper and what she’d said about substitute addiction—an addict trading one dependency for another. It happened all the time.
Is that really what she’d done? Used her obsession with saving the Magdalene window like a drug? And now that Magdalene was complete, would she fall apart?
Even as every fiber of her being rebelled against the thought, she admitted not only that it was true but also that she had already begun.
No.
She curled her hands around her mug.
She couldn’t go back to that desolate place. She wouldn’t.
She heard Deni moving through the retail area. “I’m in here,” she called.
Behind her the pocket door slid open. Mira got slowly to her feet, fixing a welcoming smile on her face. “I thought you were supposed to sleep in,” she said, turning around. “I should send you…”
The words and smile died on her lips. It was the homeless man from the night before, the one she had given money to. But unlike the night before, this morning she could clearly see his face. The expression in his eyes made her skin crawl. They burned with an unnatural intensity.
“I saw you last night,” she said as steadily as she could. “Outside the Corner Bar. I gave you twenty dollars, remember?”
He didn’t respond, just continued to stare at her. She cleared her throat. “There’re no drugs here. I don’t keep any cash on the premises. If you’re hungry, there’s a mission on Baronne Street.”
He took a step toward her. “And the Lord said, in the end the wheat will be separated from the chaff. And the chaff will be plunged into the unquenchable fire.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said softly, “and I’m certain you don’t either. Just leave now. No harm done.”
Something he held caught the light, glittering. A knife, she realized, heart leaping to her throat.
Mira glanced around. Her only chance of escape was the fire exit in the back corner of the room. She eased in that direction.
“In the end, the Shepherd will gather together his flock.” His voice rose. “What awaits false prophets is far worse than eternal damnation!”
He took another step, then another, lifting his hand.
Not a knife, she saw. A long, thin shard of glass. One of hers. He must have found it while digging through her trash. Blood dripped from his hand.
He stopped within striking distance. She saw that a small cross had been crudely tattooed between his eyes.
“The flesh will be peeled from their bones, roasted and eaten by demons.”
From outside came the sound of conversation, then laughter. Deni, for certain this time. And Chris.
The man heard them, too. It registered on his face. In the next instant, he lunged at her, going for her throat. She screamed. His fingers, slippery with blood, circled, then clawed at her neck. She fell backward against a worktable. A bucket of tools toppled, crashing to the floor.
She didn’t have time to think, let alone fight before he was off her, running for the fire exit. As the fire door popped open, the alarm sounded. Mira sank to the floor, legs shaking so violently they wouldn’t hold her.
Deni and Chris rushed into the room. Chris reached her first, squatting down in front of her. “Are you all right?”
“Mira!” Deni cried. “You’re bleeding!”
“Call 911,” Chris ordered.
Mira looked down at her front, at the blood smears on her shirt.
He’d been bleeding, his hands at her throat sticky.
“No, I’m fine.” Mira struggled to stand up. “He had a piece of glass, but he didn’t cut me. He grabbed my throat but—”
Then she realized. She brought her hand to her neck. Her cloisonné cross was gone. Jeff had bought it for her on their honeymoon in Portugal, and the lunatic had ripped it from her neck.
Another piece of Jeff taken from her.
“It was the man from last night. He took my cross necklace.”
“What man? Not that bum you gave money to?”
She nodded and Chris frowned. “How did he find you?”
“I don’t know.” She brought her hand to her throat again, grief overwhelming her. “Why did he do this?”
They both looked devastated for her. They understood the cross wasn’t simply a necklace but a piece of her lost past.
“Maybe the police will be able to get it back,” Chris offered. “If we call them now—”
The police. The windows.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Could it be?”
“Could what be?” Deni asked.
“‘He will come again to judge the living and the dead.’ The message on the Sisters of Mercy windows. Just like last night, the guy quoted Scripture. But today he said almost the same thing that was written on the windows. The detective wondered if the vandalism could have had something to do with me.”
Chris spoke first. “I think we should call 911.”
“No. I have another number to call. I’ll get it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Friday, August 12
10:50
A.M.
“That’s why she recognized me,” Malone said as Bayle eased into the Gallier Glassworks parking area. He and Stacy lived just down the block and around the corner.
“Who?” Bayle asked.
“Mira Gallier. When I interviewed her, we both thought the other looked familiar but didn’t know where we might have met. Now I do. Not only are we practically neighbors, but Stacy and I have been here, to her store. We bought a piece of her work.”
Bayle parked but didn’t shut down the vehicle. “Now that I see the Glassworks sign, I recognize her, too. After Katrina, Gallier was in the news a lot.”
“She told me her husband died in the storm.”
Bayle shrugged. “Something about that, I don’t remember what.”
Malone nodded. There’d been so many bizarre and tragic stories in the news then, so many accusations, it was difficult to remember the facts of each.